The Driver
by BlackBirdPie
Summary: Sandor was hired to drive her around. Make sure Sansa didn't run off. That was supposed to be all. AU.
1. Driving

**A/N: So a modern day AU is very extremely unusual for me…but the song came on, and bam, Sansa/Sandor were in my head and I just had to write it. Some things pertinent to the one-shot that I didn't include in the story because I couldn't find a way to make them flow are the Lannisters/Baratheons are a mob family, they have Sansa, who is going to be married off to Joffrey. Sandor is still acting as the Hound. And the location can be whatever city you prefer to visualize them driving around in. Thanks and enjoy! **

_Swear these eyes tryna hypnotize  
Grip the leather steering wheel while I grip the thighs  
See the lust stuck up in her eyes_

Their relationship was a complicated one.

He was to take her from Point A, to Point B. No questions. No comments. No…contact. That's why he was chosen after all, no person, especially a young beautiful woman would ever take a second look at him. Unless it was to shudder.

The city lights were to his left, and he told himself that's what she was looking at, her head rolled back on the seat facing him.

She was going to get him killed, goddamn her, if she kept looking at him with dark hooded eyes.

"Sandor." She smiled when he ignored her, seeing herself in his highly reflective aviators. He sped the Coupe de Ville up in response. "I know you can hear me." She leaned sideways to whisper something in his ear, he reached out pushing her down by her leg.

"Enough, Sansa." He rasped.

"Shouldn't you call me Miss. Stark?"  
He grunted. "It'll be Baratheon soon enough." He regretted his words when he felt her move closer to the door, eyes looking wounded.

Logically, he knew it wasn't her fault she was marrying the little twatty cunt. It also wasn't her fault that he was thinking and feeling the things he was about her. In fact, he was little more than her jailer, hired by Cersei to get her "safely" around town, meaning make sure she didn't run off first chance she got. His little caged bird.

"Your hand."

"What?"

"Your hand. It's on my thigh, still."

He looked down, and surely enough it was. His rough tanned skin contrasted with the creamy pale of her leg. _Move it. Move it, you idiot_. And still it stayed. He could wrap nearly his whole hand around it. If he shifted his hand up just a few inches…the though made him inhale sharply, and jogged his memory enough to jerk his hand away.

Sansa grabbed his wrist, surprisingly forcefully, and moved his hand up to the hem of her skirt. "I want you to."

He gripped the steering wheel. "That's a bad idea."  
"Everything that's happened to me has come from other people's bad ideas. At least this one is my own." Her thumb stroked the inside of his palm.

He had taken how many whores, and yet this simple movement was enough to make his breathing shallow.

Sandor snaked his hand slightly further up, his ascent making Sansa's eyes flutter shut. He felt the promise of warmth and wet through her panties. She leaned further back into the chair, whispering his name. Although he started hesitantly, when she said his name like that it was enough to make him want to pull the car over, and do everything he had been dreaming of doing to her. Lannisters be damned.

He had been driving on autopilot, hardly noticing they were coming closer to Kings Landing Road, where his employers and her jailers lived. He removed his hand hastily, and the both immediately felt the loss of the contact.

"Sansa…we…I can't."

"Try won't."

Oh, but he would. She had no idea how easily he would. Though her motivations were unclear to him, if she was bored, trying to get him in trouble, cozy up so he would help her escape, or if she just wanted to spite the others, what was clear to him was how much he didn't care.

The house, which was closer to the size of a castle, was in view now. Sandor pulled into the attached garage, as per his instructions, and was going to try to say something but Sansa already had the door open and slammed shut before he could utter out a word.

And like that she was in the house.

_Goddamn her._


	2. Dancing

**So this wasn't supposed to be continued…but I heard the song on the radio (came on right after ****_White Walls, _****btw) and I couldn't help it. Probably never going to have much of a plot, but I'll do one-shots as they come to me. I don't know why these songs keep striking the SanSan chord…but whomp there you go. Here it is!**

**Also, TW warning for allusions to non-con and abuse. **

_And I know what you came here to do  
Now bust it open let me see you get loose  
It's going down for real_

"Get out of my goddamn face." He snarls to the boy currently making the mistake of trying to push around him.

Sandor's mood has hit a particular low tonight, and babysitting Sansa at a nightclub has just about everything to do with it. And the fact that Joff has no interest in Sansa (except when it's to make her suffer), in no way stops the shit from wanting to show her off. Which is how he ended up here, arms crossed and face stony, watching a bunch of twenty-something's make assholes of themselves.

By now, Joffery has slipped into one of the expensive rooms in the back, doing god-knows-what with some girl who was only looking to make some cash, having no idea who she has gotten herself involved with.

Sandor thinks of the other nights, and the other girls, the bruises and looks in their eyes. And he can't help but think _at least it's not the little bird right now._

No, she's doing just _fucking fine_ for herself tonight. Still in the reserved area in the corner that Joff left over an hour ago, Sansa's moving her body to the winding rhythm pounding in the club. He pretends he's not watching her; not noting every move she's making, from the sway of her hips to her hand brushing down her side. Sandor also notes he's not the only one who has noticed her.

_Why isn't she telling them to bugger the fuck off. _He knows she knows she should, knows the consequences if Joff finds out she was getting too friendly. Knows _bloody well_ he's likely to accuse her of doing so anyway.

Instead, Sansa brushes one boy with her hand, beckoning him closer with a grin too far from _innocent_ for Sandor's liking. It's not until the guy has his hands on her waist, moving them down, toying with the hem of her dress that Sandor makes his move.

"Fuck. Off." He says, without looking at the guy, his eyes instead focusing in on Sansa. _Not her mouth. Eyes. Eyes. _

"Hey man," The guy starts up, and then Sandor does turn to him, revealing the scarred side of his face.

"You won't like it if I have to repeat myself."

"Thanks for that." Sansa says dryly as the guy scampers off.

"You know better." And Sandor finds himself furious with her. For not taking care of herself better. Furious with himself for not being able to protect her from his employers' wrath.

"It was only dancing."

"The fuck it was. I've seen whores with more modesty."

"Well whores also get paid, so note that as the _second_ difference." She says, looking past his shoulder to shoot another smile at a man who was talking to her earlier.

He's saying something about _making your night baby_ when Sandor swings around, getting rid of him with just a glare.

"If you won't let anybody else dance with me, does that mean you're stepping up?" She moves closer to him, still swaying to the music beating in the background.

He exhales, fighting every instinct he has to pull her closer. _Closer closer closer_.

"Or at least admit you're jealous."

And with that he snaps, backing up until she's against the corner, his body shielding her from the rest of the club.

"Is that what this is about? Making me jealous for what happened in the car?"

"What _happened_ in the car?" She's not backing down like he thought she would. Like anyone should when his anger is directed at them.

"I've had enough of your games, Sansa." He's got one arm braced by her head, the other on her chin, forcing her to look at him. "What are you playing at?"

He feels her chin quiver, sees her eyes (with the help some vodka, no doubt) fill with emotions.

"I-I...I just…_shit_." She tries to look down, to avoid his gaze, but he doesn't let her. "I'm so sick of feeling gods awful all of the time. I hate it. I hate how I don't have any control over my own damn life. I don't make any of my own decisions…this constant _fear_. I don't have anyone anymore. _They _made sure of that."

And Sandor wonders when he stopped being part of the Lannisters in her mind.

"I can't make you feel any better, girl." He swallows, not for the first time noticing how the entire length of her body is pressing up against him. The light blue of her dress a stark contrast against his black attire. He shifts slightly, ensuring nobody can see her.

Her hand moves up to his, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, moving his hand so it's cupping her face. Her whole body is trembling ever so slightly. His fingers find they way into her hair, sweeping it back off of her neck.

"Sandor." And it only takes his name to break what little resolve he had mustered. His hand moves down, quickly resuming his ministrations where he had left off before. He cups her before sliding the panties to the side, feeling her hiss of breath against his chest. He has one finger inside her when her thighs clamp around his hand, her head hitting the wall behind them. And it's all he can do to not lean down and kiss her, taste her skin.

It's her whimper that brings him back to his senses. That they're in a club and Joffery could come out here at any fucking time and he's got himself knuckle deep in Sansa Stark's cunt.

"Sansa." He says her name, hoping she'll be the one to come to her senses, to tell him to _fuck off once and for all_. Because he knows there's no going back now. That he's completely fucked when it comes to Sansa Stark.


	3. Saving

**A/N: And another. Oops. I really need to stop with this… ha. But seriously, if I keep getting ideas, anybody want to keep reading them? Also, tw: physical/emotional abuse, and animal cruelty, so please be aware. **

_Your hands on my cheeks your shoulder in my mouth_

She was up against the wall. The voices around the corner booming in her ears. Sansa knew something was wrong from the yelling alone, though the door hanging off of the hinge was a good indication also.

Joff was screaming, she could picture already the way the muscle in his forehead was jumping, the wild look in his eyes.

The other voice belonged to Cersei, though she was not so much yelling for effect, but rather to be heard over her son. From what Sansa could gather, someone had broken in. Someone had tried to kill him. _Pity, _she thought.

"_WHERE WERE YOU? YOU FUCKING USELESS PIECE OF SHIT. YOU WASTE OF FUCKING SPACE. IF A DOG IS OF NO USE TO HIS MASTER HE IS OF NO USE TO FUCKING ANYONE." _

Sansa flinches. Because she knows where Sandor was. Knows where he _was not_. She pulls her shirt tighter to fight off the chill, to cover up the bruise (that if one were to look closely at would see the outline of a mouth) on the edge of her collarbone.

_Reckless_. He had said after, tracing the outline of it with his finger, tasting it with his tongue. _Stupid. Reckless_.

"_Joffrey_—" Cersei starts, but is quickly cut off as Joffrey starts his tirade again.

Sansa takes a breath. Gathering her courage. Because part of her wants to stay outside. Stay where it's safe. Safer. But Joff…he's livid…it's her fault. If he were to do something…

Sansa comes around the corner, not knowing the form Joff's ire will take this time. It's quick. He does not have the patience to toy with her, to draw it out. He sees her and his hand is swinging, backhanding her across the face. Sansa goes down. She goes down on purpose, and she stays down.

"And speaking of _useless_." He sneers, even Cersei allows distaste to flash across her features.

From her vantage on the floor, Sansa can see Sandor square off his body, stepping forward into a striking position.

"You all should be _PUT DOWN_. Useless, _pieces of fucking shit_—"

Sansa sees Sandor's fists clench. Though she doesn't think it has to do with the words Joffrey is directing at him.

"Joffrey. Those who _failed_ you tonight will be punished. We do not tolerate mediocrity from our employees. But surely, save your anger for those who tried to carry out the crime."

"Tried and _failed_." Joffrey seethes, shoulders shaking from anger.

"Of course. Perhaps…" And for the first time, Sansa feels fear. When Cersei's calculating gaze locks on her, smile forming on her lips. "Perhaps as punishment for your dog being taken from you, Sansa should have to undergo the same thing."

Sansa feels the blood drain from her face at the mention of Lady, a stray she taken in a few weeks ago. She had tried to keep the dog under their radar, not having the nerve to lie, but hoping the animal would not be important enough to warrant their attention.

She should have known better.

"Punish _her_?"

"So your betrothed understands the pain you went through. So your dog learns what happens when hounds become useless. So your Hound has to see the pain on both of your faces."

Joffrey nods, summoning his mother's guard from the corner. "Payne, fetch me Lady, but return only her head to Sansa's room. Leave the body for the Hound. Finally will have a woman who doesn't turn from you in disgust, Clegane." Joffrey laughs at his own joke, Cersei joining him as they float out of the room.

Sandor is over to her once they are gone, pulling her off of the floor where she has begun to shake. His hands find her face, cupping her cheeks as if to examine for further injuries.

He's hissing something about _what was she bloody thinking coming in like that_ when she interrupts him.

"You have to stop him. You _have to_. Please, Sandor. Please. Lady is a good dog. She hasn't done anything. She's a good dog. She doesn't deserve this. I never…I should have left it alone. You're right. _Please_. We have to do something. We have to." She hears her voice reaching a frantic volume, knows it must be carrying down the hallway.

But she can't seem to calm down. After everything…Lady was her friend.

"Shhh, girl. You know well enough there's nothing to be done."

"Please. _Please?_" But she's looking at him, and his eyes are a stormy grey, a firm no.

"Then _let me go_." She's trying to get out of his grasp, but he's unrelenting. It's not until she bites his shoulder that he lets out a grunt of surprised pain, his grip on her slipping.

She's to the doorway before he has her again, securing her back to his chest, his lips finding her ear.

"And what are you going to do?" His voice is gruff, words ungentle. "Let it be, Sansa. Be happy it's not your head he's ordered. Or mine. It's not your fault, what's happening to your pup. It's the bloody face-less man who didn't get the job done." But the last part is more to himself than her.

Her mind is reeling. For Lady. From what he said. _Get the job done_?

Her body goes slack in his arms, and she turns as best she can to face him. "You didn't." Her voice is low. "You hired someone to…"

He's pulled them back into the room, letting go of her, backing away. His features have turned dark, unreadable. The scars the only thing visible on his face in the dark room.

"Sandor."

"I meant it when I said be glad it's not your head this time. That little shit…he's getting worse. More unstable."

"So you...while we..."

"You had an alibi. You would have never been suspected."

And she knows he didn't come to her bed just to be her alibi but...but...

"Is that was this is to you?" She hears the words pouring out before she can stop them. "Some way to..to get rid of your _boss_? Fuck the _caged little bird_ while your at it? Was I to be your alibi as well?"

"If they found out, I was going to turn myself in." He tells her bluntly. "Tell them I raped you. That you didn't want me there." He's too honest. He thinks himself guarded, and she supposes that's true. But he doesn't waste time with words he doesn't mean.

She's rubbing her face, trying to figure out how they got here. Wondering just how far back she would have to go.

"I'm sorry. I know...I know you weren't just there to...I'm sorry, Sandor." She's across the room, taking his hand tentatively into hers.

But it's he who makes the first move, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close enough to him she thinks maybe she can just stay there. Can fade away from their entire situation.

"I'll kill him before he hurts you again, little bird." His hands find their way to her hair, weaving in at the base of her head.

And she doesn't know what scares her more. The idea of him meaning it, or the thought of him not.


	4. Seeing

**A/N: A lot tamer, but there's going to be a 2nd part with the same song (different lyrics) coming to ya soon...**

_When I set my eyes on you  
Not gonna be outta my sight_

The first time he sees her, he feels nothing.

"The Stark girl," Cersei tells him. "You're to keep her here. To make sure she doesn't run off. That any attempts to take her are unsuccessful."

"Unsuccessful?"

"That she's never taken back _alive_."

He knows she's Joffreys. That her father made some sort of agreement with Robert before his death, that they were friends. That her father tried to back out, when he found out more about the Lannisters. He lost his head, the family their daughter. In that order. And now the rest of her family wants her back, wants revenge for their father's death. But not in _that_ order.

She comes in the room, trembling, her lip split. And she looks like every other person they have brought in this house. Afraid. Out of options. At the mercy of the Lannisters. He's guessing they took her in the middle of the night, something over her head. Probably Payne.

Her small frame shakes as Cersei addresses her.

"Little dove, how excited you must be."

She doesn't say anything. _Fool_, he thinks.

"How _fortunate_," Cersei continues, her earlier attempt at warmth vanishing. "You must feel, to marry into such a great family. To marry _my son_."

The girl stands there, disbelief coloring her features. She inhales and holds it, Sandor wonders with disinterest if she's going to lash out at Cersei. He shifts, moving his weight to the balls of his feet in case he must move. His first job is to protect Joffrey, but his life also depends on him protecting Cersei.

"Yes." The girl sinks into something of a curtsey. "Very fortunate. To be marrying Joffrey." She tries at a smile.

"And most fortunate, I should think to add, that your father's attempts at stopping the union did not get in the way. That they were most…unsuccessful?"

"To which I believe I have you to thank." Sansa bows her head, and Sandor thinks she's getting too bold until she begins to backtrack. "I am most grateful to be here."

"And I would guess very tired. Clegane, show Miss. Stark to her room. You will get used to his presence, Sansa…and his appearance, however gruesome it may. He'll be your constant companion."

"How nice it will be," The girl says, smiling sweetly. "To not feel alone."

He takes her to her room. Strategically located, it is in the center of the estate, on the highest level. Hard for someone to get in unnoticed, even harder to escape. And he finds himself growing irrationally angry with this girl, annoyed by her silence. Even more aggravated when it becomes chirping small talk.

It's her elbow accidently brushing him as she passes him in the doorway that finally causes him to snap.

"_Watch_ where you're going."

"Sorry." Her chattering stops, he can tell she's trying to look at him under her eyelashes.

He grabs her arm, spinning her around. "Take your look, little bird," He sneers. "It'll be a face you'll have to get used to."

He sees fear in her eyes, and doesn't know if it's his mangled face that puts it there, or his harsh tone. But it settles something in him. Fear is a sense he's used to instilling. It's something he knows how to deal with.

Still she says nothing. Though he thinks she's measuring him.

"It's nothing so grim." Her voice shakes. She's no liar. He's sure that will change if she survives here.

"Aye. Grim enough to keep pretty girls like you away. To keep you afraid."

And her entire demeanor changes when he calls her pretty. And he realizes he made a mistake, revealed too much. Though he's not yet sure what it is.

"Pretty girls like me don't usually see their father's head roll of their body. I meant it when I said it wasn't so grim."

The first time he feels something (or admits to himself he feels something) when he sees her is at the news of her brother and mother's deaths.

It's Joffrey who tells her, the little shit getting all the joy in the world from it. From his victory, sending assassins to kill the Young Wolf at his own wedding, from getting to rub Sansa's nose in it.

He tells her gleefully of how the host was the one to plunge the dagger in Robb's chest.

"How clever of you." Sansa says faintly. "He would never have seen it coming."

And of this, Sandor is sure. If they boy was anything like his father, he was too honorable for his own good, and unable to imagine the dishonor of which he was not capable.

"Are you _mocking_ me?" Joffrey says, stepping closer, his hand extending as if to slap her.

"No. No, not at all. I was only—"

A loud _whap_ fills the room. Sansa moves one hand to cover her cheek. And it's the lack of surprise on her face that compels Sandor to move forward.

"You have an outing with her tomorrow." He reminds gruffly. "You'll not want to bring out someone with a black eye."

"Yes. Yes. Hate to have her _ugly_ on top of everything else. Take her away, Hound."

He's far more liberal with the directions than he should be, and they end up going for a drive.

Sansa's in an oversized sweater, a grey which offsets her hair and eyes, and he notices it far more than he should.

She keeps twisting the sleeves, moving her hand up to wipe her eyes every so often. She's turned to look out the passenger window to avoid him. To hide her grief.

And he lets her. For once, holding back his harsh words. His sneers. Because he never had a family to lose. To be taken from him.

"Thank you." She says finally, sniffing. "For stopping him."

He snorts. Of course she's _thanking _him.

"If I were really valiant, I would try to stop him every time."

"If you were really despicable, you wouldn't have said anything. But not to worry, you're secret is safe with me."

He looks at her sharply. "Aye. I suppose I was more worried about what you would do to him."

"Oh. And what could I possibly do?"

"I don't think anyone knows the answer to that. Not truly."

In the months she had been there, Sansa had made more friends and enemies alike than anybody he had seen. Joffrey and Cersei seemed to hate her with a special vehemence. Yet…her soft nature made the servants fall in love with her. Made some of the smaller players around the Lannister estate take pity on her.

"I still have three siblings, you know. Or four. I suppose. Or at least…I think I do."

He doesn't say anything because he doesn't know. And thinks she's right to be concerned.

"I'm going to survive this." She whispers quietly. "I'll survive and I'll never forget."

His hands tighten on the wheel. Because something in him falls to place. _Aye_, he thinks_, you will. And I'll help you. _


	5. Carrying

**A/N: Sorry, it's been a while! **

_When I get my hands on you  
Gonna make you carry me_

She feels like she's been sleepwalking for three days.

Like she has been living someone else's life.

Because what _happened at the club_ was only three days ago. It makes her skin erupt in gooseflesh just thinking about it. How completely stupid it was. How reckless.

And yet, it's the only thing good that has happened to her in months. And she's scared how she can't bring herself to regret it.

To wish she could (or would) take it back.

But she hasn't seen Sandor since then. Just his back as he was leaving a room, though that was two days ago. Whispers from the servants at the house said that Cersei has sent him to work on something. Sansa thinks he is the root of this rumor, as _she _was supposed to be his project.

It has left her under the eyes of Payne, and the thought causes unease to pool in her stomach. Because they assigned her _Payne_. The worst of them. What if they knew… If they knew…

She has tried to spend most of her time in her room, pacing. Wondering. _Frustrated_.

She doesn't think he was _avoiding _her…she didn't think he had been using her (it had started out _supposing _to be the other way around).

It's two hard knocks on the door that pulls her out of her reverie. Sansa moves towards the door, there's no way to lock it, no way to keep someone out anyways.

Her hand stops above the handle at the sound of voices.

And she recognizes his.

Though the words are muffled, she can hear his gruffness, and from his tone he sounds unhappy. _Not so unusual_.

The door swings open with force, and little warning, before the edge catches her knuckle, she sees Payne storming off. From his posture, he looks irritated.

Sansa can't stop the small cry of hurt, and brings her hand to her chest, pain blooming across her knuckles.

"Sorry." Sandor says, looking down. As if he's embarrassed. She can see he's at a loss for words.

"You'll need to be more specific." She says, unable to stop the sharpness of her tone. Hating how high her voice sounds.

He raises his good eyebrow. "About your hand."

And all of her frustration from the past three days, the past few months really, comes boiling over. Until his absence seems like the worst thing, the catalyst of it all.

It's hard, when Sansa knows she's being ridiculous, and can't seem to stop herself.

"Where have you _been_?"

"Business."

"Business? What fucking…_business? _Well your _business_" She indicates to herself, "Has been here. Has been _dealing_ with _our business_, and acting like everything is _normal_ when it so obviously is not. And you have the _audacity_ to waltz in here after three days, _three days Sandor_, I mean it's the age of technology. The era of cellphones and you don't even have the common _courtesy…_" He lets her continue to rant. Lets her go on and on, and she pretends she doesn't see the fury building in his eyes. She's stopped rubbing her hand, and instead has been using it to hit Sandor's chest to accentuate her points.

"Are you about done?"

"You _left _me!" She finally screeches, her hand slapping over her mouth.

He looks like he's at a loss for words, his mouth opening and closing before he settles on something to say. "I left _for you_, girl. I'm working on something—"

But she's shaking her head because she's so sick of half-answers. Of veiled truths. She feels the hollow ache of homesickness roll through her, for her plainspoken and honest family.

"They _assigned me Payne_!"

And at that name she sees real anger take over his features.

"Did he touch you? Tell me, did he lay a hand on you?" He's already got her chin in his hand, moving her face from side to side, inspecting for bruises. "I swear to the fucking gods if he did anything I'll fucking _kill the bastard_ myself—"

"No he didn't—Sandor, _stop_. He didn't touch me. I just…I didn't know what was going on. Nobody knew anything. They said you were gone. And Payne was here…and I didn't know if they knew."

"We're still both alive. They don't know."

"Where did you go?"

"It's best if you don't know."

"For whose sake?"

He hesitates. "Both of ours."

"You left." She meets his eyes, and his hand tightens on her chin.

"Sansa." Her name off his tongue sends chills down her back. "We can't."

"You always say that. Is that why you left? To get away from me?"

"Getting away is the last thing I want to do with you."

"What's the first?" She's closed the gap between them, tilting her head towards his.

He growls, moving down to press his mouth to hers, but she pulls back at the last minute.

"You shouldn't have left without saying anything."

And beneath the anger, Sandor can see fear. "It won't happen again."

He brushes his thumb over her cheek, gentler than would seem possible from a man like him. He feels the shudder run through her chest before he can no longer resist her.

And from there it all moves quickly. _Quickly quickly, too quickly_. He shoves the dresser in front of the door with a grunt, holding her too him with his other arm.

They're a fumbling mess, trying to find their way to her bed.

Her hands are nails raking under his shirt, urging it off over his head. She's making noises that sound almost akin to pain. So much so he takes a moment, to pull back and look at her. Her face is flushed, eyes feral.

"Don't. Stop." She says, moving as if to pull her dress off.

His hand moves, stopping her, holding the edge of the cotton. He twists it around his fingers. A moment of hesitation, but really, who is he fucking kidding.

Her dress is off, and she moves to work on his jeans. He takes a minute to appreciate Sansa Stark in nothing but her underwear, her skin flushed against the pink garments.

His hands can't seem to settle on one place. But rather slide down her shoulders, cupping her breasts, tracing around her waist, over her stomach, down her legs, hitching her calf around him.

He's thrusting into her, and she's rolling her hips. Sandor wants nothing more than to make this last. To enjoy ever last fucking moment of it. Her hands are clawing at the bed, and he hasn't even done anything yet. Part of him, and this part he tries to push back, says he doesn't know what to do. Hasn't been with a woman he hasn't paid for.

So it's tentatively, that he pulls down her panties. Despite lacking the luxury of time, of knowing what they are doing is stupid and likely to get them both killed, he starts to move slowly.

He's bending down, letting the good side of his face brush against her thighs. Her foot digs into his back, and she's breathing hard and fast out of her nose. He pauses just outside her, inhaling, letting out a groan of his own.

And she can feel him mumbling against her thigh, something about _smells so good _and _wet _and _sweet_. She wants to tell him to hurry up, to get on with it. But it's all she can do to not cry out and beg when she feels his tongue pressing into her. Sliding up, moving inside her, the press of his nose, the feeling of his sigh.

"Please…Sandor…_please_…" She's reaching for him, pulling up his head, aligning her body under his.

And he's obliging, because if he waits too much longer, he knows that all Sansa will have is a mess in her sheets.

Finally, _finally_, he's pushing into her.

She can't help the air that hisses out between her teeth, the way all her muscles seem to clench in on themselves.

She can tell that he's trying to go slow, to not move. But it doesn't seem to be making a difference. Suddenly his weight on her seems like too much, like it's all too much, like…

"Breath, little bird. Breath." His voice is strained, and his muscles are starting to shake from holding himself above her.

Sansa inhales, exhales. She feels her muscles relaxing, the pain dulling, maybe even turning into something else entirely…

And finally she's moving, small experimental movements of her hips. Sandor inhales sharply, she can hear him grinding his teeth.

"Sansa…?" He's asking her for permission, his brow dripping with sweat.

She nods her head, and he's moving inside her. Thrusting, pulling, his hands find their way to her breast, one cupping her cheek. She turns into it, rolling her hips into him.

A pressure is building low in her stomach, and it's not until he adds his fingers that the pressure builds, travels, until she's sure it's bursting behind her eyes.

It's an eternity and a moment later, before it explodes, her own body jolting, his collapsing on top of her.

The room is silent except for their breathing, the air still and heavy.

_What have we done_.

_What will we do_.


	6. Feeling

**SO, it's been a while! Also, from here on out, I think the chapts will mostly (mostly and most likely, but I may change my mind) be in chronological order. Just so you know :)**

**Enjoy!**

_I, I could light it up for you__  
__We, we ain't got a shot to lose__  
__Put it on but fade it out, tell you that you weren't enough_

She's trying and failing to not notice the way his shirt is riding up. The way his stomach flexes as he moves under the car.

_Problem with the engine_, he had mumbled earlier when she'd asked him what he was working on.

And she didn't know enough about cars to care to ask more.

She's fiddling with a wrench when he asks for the screwdriver (Phillips) and she doesn't try to hide her offended look when he says he's surprised she knew which one it was.

And this is how she's passed the afternoon; handing him tools and pretending she wasn't objectifying his body. It all feels…horribly and terrifyingly normal. So much so that the bottom is going to drop out and she's going to wake up and have to remember the nightmare that is her life.

He's requesting tools rapidfire now, one right after the other. Sansa is beginning to get suspicious when he request a hacksaw.

"A _hacksaw_? And what exactly may I _ask _are you planning on doing with a hacksaw? I mean I'm no care buff but—"

And suddenly he's rolling out from under the vehicle, his hand snaking around her ankle, stroking the inside of her calf. Her breath hitches in a way she thinks may be embarrassing.

"I'm joking, little bird."

And Sansa isn't use to this side of Sandor Clegane, the one who smiles and makes jokes with her.

In fact, she can't remember the last time that someone actually tried to make her laugh.

Her face breaks into a smile. "Oh."

"I've heard you northerners don't know how to recognize a jest."

She laughs. "It's true."

Which makes him smile, the scarred side of his face twisting.

"What?" She asks, shaking her head. "It is. We are a serious folk. You have to be when you survive on pig fat and goats milk."

"Sounds like Scotland."

He's rolling out from underneath the car, knees on either side of her as he rises.

"Finished already?" She asks, and he's barely a breath away, looking at her with an expression caught somewhere between seriousness and amusement.

He holds her face gently between his hands, moving his thumb under her eye on each side of her face. She's about to lean into his touch when he lets out a guffaw of a laugh.

"Now the little bird is a little kitty cat."

"What do you mean," But Sansa answers her own question when the smell of grease hits her nose, when she notices his hands covered in the stuff. "You _didn't_. Sandor you did not cover my face in your _filthy car grease_?"

Her voice is shrill and it's making him laugh harder. She's looking in the passenger side mirror.

"Oh my god. Oh my – I looking like a _cat_." She's sputtering, trying, _trying _to be angry with him. But she can't remember a time Sandor has laughed like this…ever. And she's having a hard time dredging up any real feelings of spite.

His hands wrap around her, straightening her up from the mirror. They span nearly her entire ribcage, and his thumbs rub under her breasts in a way he has discovered she likes. And the fact that he knows that much about her in that way causes her stomach to drop.

And for the first time Sansa has been with Sandor she feels afraid.

She feels terrified she may lose him.

Because somehow he has become enough; enough of a bright spot for her to survive this…_thing_ with the Lannisters.

But she doesn't think she's strong enough to survive losing him.


	7. Bracing

**The next couple chapters are going to see SanSan looking a little…rocky? You have been warned. But to make up for it, I think updates are going to be more frequent? **

_Smile  
__the worst is yet to come  
__We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun_

Her hands are shaking. He sees her swallow. Stretch her fingers. Once. Twice. But they are still shaking.

"Sansa?" He hears how unsure his voice sounds. He moves, raising his hand to push the hair back from her face, and she flinches.

It's the flinch that causes him to take a step back. Cross his arms. Brace himself. Because if there's something he is used to, it's bad news.

"They," She starts, clears her throat. Her eyes are everywhere but on him. "They are going to cancel the engagement."

His heart seems to stop, before speeding up, racing in his ears.

"How…who…"

"Margaery told me. She thought…" Sansa laughs humorlessly. "She thinks it means _I'm free_. Joff is to marry Margaery in the fall. Just a few months."

"She has to know." He growls.

Sansa shakes her head, still looking at her hands. "She doesn't. She thinks that Joff will end it with me that this just means we are going to break up. She thinks that they'll wait a few months. She's even talking about sending me to High…High Garden? It's on the coast. Her family's home."

"They'll…Sansa…they'll…"

"They're going to kill me." Finally she looks at him. "It'll spin in the press as two friends mourning over me, and finding each other. But if they're breaking off the engagement it means they're _done_ with me. That I've served my purpose."

"No. _No_. I'll get you out of here." He doesn't remember moving towards her, his hands finding her face. "We'll leave. We can run. I have some contacts from the military, in just a few days we'll be gone."

"You know," She finally meets his eyes. "That's the type of story I would have cried over. Two people, being brought together over tragedy. I would have cut it out of the paper. Put it on my wall. With no idea…"

"It's not going to fucking happen."

Sansa smiles and it's so sad he feels fear pooling in his bones. "There's nowhere to run where they won't find us."

"I'll kill every last one of them."

"Even you can't kill that many people."

"Listen to me girl, we are leaving. We are getting you out of here. I'm not just going to fucking sit here and _watch_…"

"There is no 'we'."

And maybe if she had raised her voice. Yelled. Maybe he would have fought back. Because he knew how to fight. But he didn't know how to do this.

"You keep saying 'we', but there isn't one. You're going to be _fine_. Okay? They don't know about…_this_. To them you're still loyal. You're not the blood of a traitor. You don't need to die for anything."

His hand lowers from her face so he's gripping the back of her neck. The shaking from her fingers seems to have moved up to her chest.

"I'm not letting them…" His mouth twists around the word, "_Kill_ you."

"Please. _Please_. Don't make this harder. Don't make it worse. I've lost everyone. _Everyone_. My family…they've all been taken. Killed. By the Lannisters. I cant…I won't lose someone else to them. I can't, Sandor. Do you get that?"

"Sansa."

"No."

_What happened to you?_ He wants to yell. _Where did the bloody girl who wasn't going to give up go? Where's Sansa fucking Stark_?

But he doesn't.

Instead he watches turn her back to him, and complies when she quietly asks him to shut the door on his way out.


	8. Paying

**Two in one day, not bad right?!**

_Woe is me  
__Faithless you and selfish me_

Sandor has not paid for a whore in a long, long while.

And it's not…she's…Sansa's not the only reason. It wears and tears at his pride; it forces him to remember what he looks like, and how other people see him.

But the gnawing sense of loneliness has him hiring a hooker.

When asked his preferences he growls out _not a redhead_ and slams down the phone.

It's a small blonde that shows up at the gates a few hours later; Baelish always delivers.

The whole thing is over before it really even starts. She can barely look at his face and he hers and _what the fuck else is new_. Because it's shame and _guilt_ he feels even as she wraps her legs around him, puts her hand down his pants, and ask him if he likes it.

And it's _you don't owe her anything you don't owe her anything she's not your goddamn girlfriend_ he's trying to remind himself over and over.

He walks the girl out because you're not really supposed to hire woman to have sex with you on the Lannister dime, but Sandor's not central enough they usually look the other way. _Usually_.

And the girl has grown friendlier, bolder. Because he supposes despite his twisted face he's probably a pretty good customer, would make a decent good regular; he pays and he doesn't slap women around.

"Call me anytime, baby." She's saying with a smile, her hand on his chest. And he's nodding to her with a tight smile, until he looks up.

And for the first time in days he's looking right into blue eyes.

Sansa's eyes are on the hand on his chest, widening with realization. Sandor's wishing he would have taken the time to throw a shirt on, but really who was he supposed to run into this time of night?

Sansa fucking Stark. Of course.

She's opening and closing her mouth before settling on a quiet _sorry_, her head bowed. And he's reminded of why he started calling her little bird, of her chirping endless courtesies.

And the blonde (Renee, Rita?) is smiling, pulling her arm back to her side, looking at Sandor.

"You should be in your room." He barks out. He's trying to ignore the way his heart's beating out of his chest, pushing down the urge to apologize back to her.

It's a flash of hurt across her face before the mask she has perfected here slides into place.

And brute he is, feels triumph at being able to hurt her. _She's jealous_.

"And you should be seeing your guest out. Goodnight, Mr. Clegane." She nods to Renee (he's pretty confident), and is off down the hall.

"Hope that doesn't get you in trouble." Renee says with a smile.

He gets her out the door with a couple of noncommittal grunts to call her, and before he realizes where he's going he's off on the hallway Sansa went down. Sandor is justifying it with the excuse to make sure she is okay and she got back to her room fine. But if he's being honest…

When he gets there the door is closed and he loses his nerve. He presses an ear to the door, hoping to any of the gods that will listen that she will not chose _this moment_ to open it.

It's soft, her crying on the other side. And suddenly he doesn't feel so good for the look on her face earlier.

His stomach bottoms out, and his fists clench at his hair. He reaches for the door handle until he remembers that she ended whatever the fuck it was between them.

_To protect you, you worthless dog_.

Because he has to remind himself that it's not Sansa's fault for any of this; he only has his employers to blame.

And if the girl has any chance, she has to get out of here.

He failed her once, with Joffrey's botched murder attempt. But he won't fail her again.

He can't afford to.


	9. Acting

_I'm the one that's acting like I'm so strong  
you're the one that's acting like nothing's wrong  
Can we skip the charades_

It's horribly easy, she thinks, to pretend like nothing has happened. To carry on the way they were always supposed to.

He thinks the same thing, his head up, eyes on a point above her. That's the thing about guarding someone. You don't have to watch them, just the space around him. And he keeps his eyes glued to that space because…

"It's easier," Margaery is saying to Sansa, "To live in the warm than the cold, I think."

They are making their way towards Sansa's room, Sandor to make sure she gets there, Margaery because she seems to genuinely want to spend time with the girl.

They are speaking in earnest of Sansa's home now, and his gaze flicks to the back of her head. Because she's being reckless. She trusts Margaery too much. She's talking too much. Missing Winterfell is a disloyalty to the Lannisters, and a question of loyalty leads to cutting off fucking heads.

_Stick to the job. Do your bloody job, you fool_. Though he supposes part of his job would be to report conversations such as these.

"I hope I can see it one day." Margaery says of Winterfell, smiling.

And Sandor doesn't bloody trust her grin, no matter how sincere it may seem to be.

"Yes. You'd like it there. With a coat, I'm sure." Sansa smiles, waving as Margaery saunters off.

"A word?" Sandor growls as she rounds the corner, out of sight and earshot.

Sansa's face has grown cold.

"About?"

"What the bloody hell you're thinking or more importantly what you not fucking thinking."

"I beg your pardon?" Her voice is sharp, and her anger is hard to miss.

"I know you think you can trust this Tyrell bitch but—"

Her laugh is high and humorless. "This 'Tyrell bitch', as you so charmingly put it is the only person who's shown me any kindness in weeks. And I don't _trust_ her."

"Then you ought not—"

"No. _No_. You don't get to tell me what to do or who to trust or…anything. _Anything_."

"Listen girl, I'm only saying—"

"Well stop. I'm sure you have someone waiting for you. I hear you can pay _extra_ for conversation." And she's a turn on her heels into her room. And he'd think she really meant it; that her apathy was true if not for the way her hands shook as they held the door handle.

And it's difficult to say which hits harder, her words, or the door slamming in his face.


	10. Trying

**A/N: ****I'm so sorry. **

_I try being sweet  
It's buried deep in me  
Now I can only see red on red_

A sensitive kid. That's what they had called him once, what others called her now. He thinks it may be one of the things they had in common.

But the boy he once was, the one who loved his mother and his dad and his sister, is so far gone he doesn't feel like he existed at all. Today, all there seems to be is the Hound. And right now, in this room, the Hound is alive, well, and seeing red

Sansa Stark is standing in front of Cersei, her wrists bandaged. He can see that she is holding her breath. Her cut lip barely trembling. He knows though, that the cut lip happened after the "accident", or whatever bullshit they would think of calling it.

"Little dove." Cersei smiles, though it never reaches her eyes. She tilts her head, and it looks like she's not only looking at the girl, but _into _her.

It would have terrified her once, he thinks, made her want to chirp and tell the woman everything. Now, it only seems to steel her resolve, and Sansa straightens her back, raises her gaze.

"I assume this…was a cry for attention?"

"It was an accident."

"An accident?"

"I slipped. And fell."

"Into your window."

"Yes. But as is the case with…cries for attention, it will not happen again."

"Oh, of that I am confident, little dove."

"It was so stupid of me. So minor. I would hate to inconvenience Joff with my trivial incompetency." _Smart girl_, he thinks.

"My son does have much to worry over. But don't you think the state of his fiancée warrants his attention?"

"I'm fine, but of course it is up to your discretion to tell him while he is away." Sansa casts her eyes down again.

"Hmm," Cersei tilts her head, still taking the girl in. Raking her over. "Take her back to her room, Clegane. And see she has no further accidents today. And no more bruises on her face." Cersei adds the last part as almost an afterthought.

It was two weeks ago, that Sansa told him about their plans to call off the engagement.

And he wants to know if you can really end something before you've started it; if you can break up when you're not really even fucking together.

But these thoughts make him feel lost and hopeless and like he's uselessly treading water. So when the familiar threads of anger start wrapping around his chest he embraces them.

Because what in the fuck was she thinking, trying to…was she really trying to fucking kill herself?

_Was it his fault_?

They walk in silence to her room, and silence seems how she's going to leave it as she closes the door.

But before he knows what he's doing his arm is out, holding open the door, and he's in the room after her.

"What were you fucking thinking?"

"Listen—"

"No. What were you thinking? And don't tell me it's none of my bloody business. I want some fucking answers."

Sansa exhales. Looking at the wall.

"_Damn it_, Sansa." He hits the wall and it makes her jump and it makes him feel like a monster. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing is why you've a broken window and bandaged wrists and a cut lip?"

She's looking back at the ground, blinking too quickly. Her arms hanging uselessly at her side.

And Sandor thinks he can feel his heart breaking for her. Feels the anger rear up its head, demanding retribution.

"I cut my hand." She says finally, her voice small. "On the blade you gave me. I was…I was _looking _at it, and dropped it. Between the bed and the wall. And I picked it up, but grabbed the wrong end, so I cut my hand. And they…well I don't have anything sharp to cut my hand on in this room so I had to think of something so I broke the window…and I…I used the glass to cut my wrists to make it look like a suicide attempt. Because I could hardly tell them I had a knife."

His mind is spinning along with his stomach. _The blade you gave me_.

"So you didn't..."

"Try to kill myself? No. I'd hate to rob them of that particular chance."

And the anger is a beast in the room. It's roaring for blood. For action. To put an end to this, an end to her pain. To stop the people that keep putting her through this over and over again.

_And aren't you one of them_?

"I keep waiting." She's saying again, her voice barely above a whisper. "For them to do it. And I can't sleep because I keep wondering _when_ they're going to do it and _how_ and if…" She's shaking her head, mumbling sorry, sorry, sorry.

"Sansa." Her name breaks his voice.

"Yeah." She clears her throat. "So you don't have to worry. I didn't try to kill myself or anything, I'm fine. It's all just…fine."

"Sansa."

"You should probably go. Cersei's going to wonder where you are."

He opens his mouth and closes it.

"Why aren't you fighting? Why are you giving up?" He hears himself ask, but he doesn't know where the words come from.

"I think I'm saving the most people this way. I…_I got a letter_." The last part is barely above a whisper.

He shakes his head, not understanding.

She's moving closer to him, voice dropping low. "From my sister. From Arya. I don't…I have no idea how she got it here. But there were things in it…I know it's from her. It's not just them playing with me. And if…if I die maybe they'll leave her alone. They hate me, after all. I'm the one they _really hate_. Maybe Arya will be okay if I'm not around. Because then they can't use her against me."

And he's still wondering at how the girl managed to get into Sansa's room when he's demanding if she still has the letter, and she's shoving it into his hands as he's talking about burning it and what if the Lannisters had found it and _what was she thinking doesn't she have any idea—_

But her hand on his forearm silences him, because he can't remember the last time Sansa touched him.

"And you."

"And me what?"

"If I'm not around you'll be safer."

He barely manages to hold in his scream, to make it out of the room before he breaks something. That Sansa thinks she is going to lay down her life for a miserable old dog like him. A monster, a waste. That Sansa Stark…he's choking on it all. His emotion. Fear. Anger. _Rage_.

It's what makes him do it, he reasons.

It's why he marches straight to Cersei Lannister and says, "Arya Stark is back and Sansa knows where she is."


	11. Sinking

_I'm sinking in  
You know that something's got to  
Something's gotta give_

She won't look at him.

She's facing the window, sobbing finally stopped. The tear tracks have dried on her face.

And he tries to forget the last time they were in the car. He thinks it's almost funny, how little he has actually driven her around considering it was supposed to be one of his chief responsibilities.

No, the little bird was kept in a much smaller cage than they had originally figured.

There is a small black vehicle three cars behind him; expensive looking, but nondescript. He knows Blount and Trant are in it. It was the only part of his plan that went wrong, really.

And he was pretty fucking surprised that any of it had gone right.

He had given up trying to talk to her forty minutes ago, and they were already an hour into this trip.

_But it may be her only chance_.

"Sansa." He tries again.

"You were right." Her voice is hoarse, and he's just surprised she's saying anything to him at all. "That I couldn't trust anybody. That everyone is always looking for an angle, a way to use you. You tried to make me see that, so I don't know why I'm so surprised about _this_ from _you_."

_He had shown the letter to Cersei, and like a cat that has just spotted a mouse her eyes lit up. _

_She nodded to Blount and Trant, "Let's go get the little blood traitor. Clegane, lead the way." _

_They were outside of Sansa's room in minutes. He knocked on her door before Cersei could order him to smash the door down or something equally dramatic. Sansa was at the door immediately, eyes wide and surprised when she sees the group._

_"__I don't know if you thought you would get away with this, little dove. But you're sorely mistaken." Cersei threw the letter at Sansa's feet._

_But he didn't react, even when the hurt blue eyes found his._

_"__Fell out of her pocket." He said instead._

_"__How…" Sansa stammered._

_"__Take her." Cersei said; and that was his moment._

_"__We need her." Sandor spoke. He ignored the screaming in his head, because he _had_ to play this right. It had to go their way or else Sandor was going to have to hack his way out of this house, Sansa in tow, with nothing but his .22 and switchblade. _

_Cersei looked at him, appalled. "We have no need for traitors."_

_"__No matter how much we torture her, she may not give us the right information on her sister. And a Stark on the loose could be dangerous. I can find her, with this traitor." He made himself say the words. "Let me take her, and deliver you both Stark sisters."_

_"__And how," Cersei asked, her eyes thundering and greedy at the prospect of another Stark "Will Sansa be of any assistance?" _

_"__Bait."_

Cersei had insisted on sending along Blount and Trant, despite his protests. _Assurances_, Cersei had said with a cold smile.

_"__I'm never going to forgive you for this!" Sansa hissed as he shoved her in the car, not seeming to care who is in earshot. _

_"__It's for your own good—"_

_"__I don't care, I don't fucking care! How could you? How could you? How…how could…" _

_"__Sansa this was the only way—"_

_"__She's my sister! I told you because I thought…and now they know about her. They know and they won't stop and…oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. What have I done…"_

And now her silence is deafening in his ears.

"I won't forgive you for this, Sandor. I don't care why you did it, you had no right."

"I wasn't going to let you _fucking die for me_. _You_ had no right. So just bloody be quiet. I'm not turning you sister in. I'm trying to save your fucking life. Besides…I think she's more than capable of taking care of herself."

"And why is that?"

He nods to the letter sitting on the center dash. "The man I hired to kill Joffrey, he's part of a group. The Faceless. Assassins_._ And judging by the paper there, that symbol in the corner, your sister's one of them."


	12. Drinking

**A/N: You know what they say…it has got to get worse before it gets better? That being said, small TW for abuse. **

_I've been drinking, I've been drinking  
I get filthy when that liquor get into me_

Sandor had told Cersei when the left they would head north, that it was the best guess as to where Arya was without any information from Sansa.

"Mexico?" Sansa says as they reach the border patrol. It's the first time she has spoken to him since he told her about his suspicions of Arya's involvement with the Faceless. Three days ago. And she was unwilling to give him the satisfaction of conversation, even if it was to ask about Arya.

It has been two days since they have snuck out of the motel where Blount and Trant were still sleeping. Sandor leaving a hastily scribbled note about a new lead and no time and he would check in when he could.

It was a thin excuse at best. One that wouldn't hold up for long, just hopefully give them enough time to get far enough away.

"Aye, Mexico."

"You told Cersei north."

"Which is why we are going _south_."

It's a hard look she is giving him, and not for the first time Sandor realizes the depth of her loyalty for her family. That he may have pushed her trust too far.

"So the whole 'a hound will never lie to you' thing is pretty fucking loose dogma I guess."

He says nothing, only grinds his jaw and grips the steering wheel harder.

And it's when she rolls her eyes and looks back out the window that he remembers how young she really is.

The border patrol gives them a long look. Sandor can practically hear his thoughts; about what a pretty girl is doing with a brute like him.

"Are you okay, miss?" He asks Sansa, taking off his sunglasses.

Sandor has never particularly liked pretty little shits like this.

Sansa flashes him her widest smile. "Oh, of course! Just looking forward to a vacation with my godfather, I've never been to Mexico." She smiles again, leaning forward.

"Godfather?" Sandor asks as they are finally let through.

"I didn't know what names you had on the documents." She gestures to the fake passports that Cersei had made when Sansa first arrived. "Blood relative may not have passed as well if we didn't have the same last name."

Maybe she's not so young after all.

It's two more days of sleeping in the car, eating out of gas stations, and general misery before they snap.

And half a bottle of tequila.

Sandor knows he shouldn't be drinking, that he can't afford to let down his defenses. But _goddamn_ if Sansa hasn't been trying him, with her sullen quiet stretches. And when she does acknowledge him it's surly and passive aggressive. And he's slept not one, but two nights with a gearshift stuck in his back.

They have stopped at a small roadside cantina. And it's Sandor's turn to be quiet, he hasn't said anything but _tequila por favor_, and that was an hour ago.

He's shitfaced in a way he hasn't been for…maybe for months. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and the world has begun a perceptible spin. He's not really paying attention to anybody else there, but Sansa is sitting next to him, arms crossed as tightly as her legs are.

She looks prissy and pissed off, he thinks. _And pretty. Such a pretty little bird_.

He doesn't realize he said the last part aloud until Sansa is looking directly at him.

"You're drunk."

"And you're jealous…or you were. Of me. And and…and Renee."

"_Who_?" She asks incredulously. "Is that the prostitute you hired?

"Jealous, jealous little bird."

"I'm not…I wasn't _jealous_."

"Now who's the liar?" He's leaning in too far, and his grin must look crazy. But he's had enough to drink that he can't quite control himself. Or bring himself to give two shits.

"Whatever, Sandor."

"_Whatever Sandor_." He mocks.

"Un_fucking_believable." Sansa has turned to face him now. "You _betray_ me. Put my sister's life in danger. Smuggle me off to Mexico. And now you're…what you're _mimicking _me? How _old _are you? And what's the fucking plan, Sandor? What's the endgame? I'm not dead, so really, _well done_. What do you think Cersei and Joffrey are going to do when the catch up with us? Do you even realize what you've _done_? Now we are both targets."

_So much chirping_, he's thinking. Aloud he says, "I've got a plan."

"And what would that be?"

But he doesn't really have a plan. His plan was to keep Sansa alive, to get them out. And to run. But he's starting to realize that's not really a long-term strategy. And he never imagined his companion would be so…hostile.

"Well you're alive, aren't you?" He hears the defensiveness in his voice. "So you're fucking welcome for that."

"I'm alive, but at what cost? To my sister? To you?"

"You could act a little more _grateful_." He says. Because it's easier than saying that the thought of her dying for him makes his stomach churn. Because he doesn't know how to form the words that he can't imagine living in a world without her in it. Because Sandor has always found it easier to reach for his uglier emotions than his softer ones. Even now. Even with her.

"_Grateful_?"

"Yeah, _fucking grateful_. Instead of being a stuck-up little bitch." Sansa's sharp inhale almost brings him back, almost keeps him from going on. But that's the thing Sandor has always known about himself: he's good at breaking things. "You're alive, your stupid sister seems to _somehow_ still be bloody alive. My brother burned half my face off and I still don't bitch as much as you. Grow the hell up, Sansa. You're life's not so terrible, princess." He's gesturing wildly with his arms, and her name sounds more like _Shansa _off his tongue, but he's almost proud at the wounded look on her face.

"You're no better than Joffrey, than _any _of them."

And it's a small _crack _that fills the air that reigns him back in.

It's Sansa holding her cheek, expression equal parts hurt and devastated and appalled. It's the tears gathering in her eyes. And finally it's his hand hanging at his side.

It's all of these things before he realizes that he hit her.

That he _hurt _her.

"Sansa…" He's saying. "Shit, Sansa. _Shit._"

She's shaking her head, and he sees that her hand is trembling. She's standing up from the bench they're sitting at.

"Sansa…I never…_please_ Sansa just wait…_shit_…"

He's reaching out to her because he has to make this better. His stomach is roiling from more than just alcohol because he just slapped Sansa. And for what? Pointing out the truth?

But she flinches, and he watches the fear pass through her eyes when she sees his outstretched hand.

She's backpedaling from the table, her breathing becoming ragged. "Leave me alone."

She says it so quietly that he can barely hear it.

"Damn it. Damn it. _Fuck_." He's holding his head in his hands before he registers that she has left. Alone. In Mexico. And he has no idea where she went.

**A/N: If you are in/have any questions about relationships and domestic abuse, I encourage you to visit thehotline, which is a .org site.  
How Sansa/Sandor dealt with this situation in this chapter and will deal with it in the chapters to follow is in no way a standard for anybody else. Just wanted to make that clear, and point out some resources, so thanks for reading :) **


	13. Going

**A/N: I think I may have used this song in another fic…oh well. Enjoy! Also, I swear, SanSan is going to be seeing some better relationship times soon. Very, very soon!**

**And as mentioned in the last chapter, for anyone dealing with and wondering about domestic abuse, I invite y'all to check out ****thehotline**** which is a .org website. **

_All of your ways and all your thunder  
Got me in a haze running for cover  
Where we gonna go from here_

Of course it has begun to rain.

_Maybe it will cover my scent from the Hound_, Sansa thinks as she's walking away from the cantina, no sense of where she's going.

Sansa doesn't get too far before she realizes that she doesn't actually have anywhere to go.

But she's stumbling through the desert because she can't take one more second of being around Sandor. Because part of her recognizes why he did what he did; that he was trying to save her life.

And he has no reason to care about Arya. Other than the fact that she does.

And she's angry with him. So _angry_. Because she trusted him, when she told him about the letter. It wasn't some calculated trust, she had no real reason to tell him. Other than…other than she just wanted him to know. She wanted to tell somebody that there was hope; that her death could mean something, that she could protect Arya.

But now the Lannisters know, and now Arya is in their warpath, she's on their radar.

And Sansa doesn't know how to forgive him for that.

Her hand trembles as it goes to touch the sore sport on her face. She's sure it'll bruise. Which is something she's used to, being hit. Having bruises.

But never, _never_, from Sandor.

Sansa Stark is not that person. That let's people hit her. Not after the Lannisters. Not anymore.

She's far enough away from the cantina that she can't hear the noises of people eating and drinking and socializing anymore, but the building is still in her sights.

She has wrapped her arms around herself, her chest shuddering.

Because she's stronger than this; she _has _to be.

There's thunder rolling in, the sky threatening with lightening off in the distance. She's near soaking wet because it's the desert and there aren't exactly any trees. Sansa is also finally noticing that the terrain hasn't been kind to her feet, and that they're cut up despite her sandals.

_Pull yourself together, Sansa_. _This isn't the worst off you've been._ She sits down on a rock next to her, images of rattle snakes and scorpions no match for the pain starting to bloom across her jaw, the sting in her feet.

It's the lightening in the sky, the reason she sees a hulking figure come from around the corner of the cantina. And then stop, bend over, lean against the wall, and heave.

She turns away, not really caring if he comes after her. Because she needs a plan. She needs a way to protect Arya, to get herself out of this mess.

And she's not sure how Sandor fits into this anymore.

In the end, it's the crunching that gives him away, his footsteps behind her. He stops a few feet away from her. She wonders what he's going to do.

And then he's in front of her, taking up all of her vision. He has his hands held up, like he's surrendering. She blinks and he's on his kneeling in front of her, his hands still held up.

She doesn't break the silence, and it takes a few minutes for him to speak.

"I'm so sorry." His head is hanging, and he can't seem to meet her eyes. "Sansa. I…I am so sorry. I never…I should have never done it. It doesn't matter how much I had to drink. I never meant to…I never wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry. Shit, I'm sorry."

"I'm not going to say it's okay."

He nods, finally bringing his eyes up to her face. And his features tighten when he sees the bruise starting under her jaw. He moves his hand forward as if to touch it, before thinking better of the action.

"I don't expect forgiveness." He's looking at the bruise again, the one he put on her. "Where do you want to go? Name it. Whatever, wherever you want. And I'll make sure you get there. Nobody will hurt you again. I won't…I won't hurt you again. I'll make sure you're safe and then you won't have to deal with me anymore. I swear it."

Her throat feels full. She said she wouldn't say it was okay, and she meant it. But she doesn't know if she has it in herself to tell him to leave.

Instead she clears her throat, and looks him in the eye. "Tell me about the Faceless. Tell me what has become of my sister."


	14. Restarting

_I'm staring at the mess I made_

Sandor can hardly bear to look at the mark he has left on her face. Many times, he has seen Sansa bloody and bruised, and he thought badly enough of himself for watching. For allowing it to happen.

He never thought that he would be the one to do it. And it makes him feel a thousand times worse.

But they have reached a sort of balance. Of stilted-courtesy. It's as if they are strangers when they speak; polite and forced. And Sandor finds himself shocked that he's able to bullshit his way through these conversations. But he can. For her. Because of what he has done.

Now though, at least they have a plan. And a new car that Sandor stole from an American couple that were stupid enough to leave the keys in the ignition outside the station. It had been bothering Sandor, to drive a vehicle that belonged to the Lannisters, even though he had checked it for tracking devices daily. Realistically, he knew there was no amount of precautions he could take that would leave them totally secure.

Sandor tells her all he knows of the Faceless. They are based somewhere in South America, a group of elite and highly trained assassins. How he barely managed to make contact with the one who botched killing Joffrey. That the Faceless never made mistakes before that. And he recognized the symbol faintly embossed on Arya's letter; the V and M piercing the D.

"Valar morghulis." He tells her. "It's a dead language, means 'all men must die'."

"So…you think my sister has become an assassin? She's only _sixteen_. "

He nods. "They train them young, the Faceless. Make them into someone new. Someone…blank. That's what the name means. That they aren't anyone they used to be, so they can become anyone they need to be."

"If she's not who she once was, then why did she contact me? Why write this?"

He wants to tell Sansa that the note is hardly cause to expect a happy family reunion. But he holds his tongue. _Polite_, he reminds himself _polite polite polite_.

_Sansa, I'm alive. I have needle. Do not try to find me. Return home. _

"What's needle?" He had asked her, after their silent agreement to act as polite strangers than…whatever the hell it was they were.

"It's a dagger, strange I know. Our half-brother Jon made it for her. Nobody outside the family would know she calls it that. I think she included it so I would know it was her."

"Some things are harder to let go of than others." He says quietly, back in the moment, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

She nods, almost imperceptibly. "And now…where are we going?"

"A contact of mine. If anyone knows about the Faceless, he will. They move around, don't stay anywhere too long, so tracking them down will depend on some correct information, and a lot of luck. But my contact is in Guadalajara. Could have made it days ago, but with the false route north to shake Blount and Trant…it'll be a couple of days yet."

"And how will you contact him once we get there?"

For the first time in days Sandor passes what could almost be called a grin. "He'll hear about us the second we get into town, I don't doubt."


	15. Forgiving

_I thought heaven can't help me now  
Nothing lasts forever  
But this is gonna take me down_

"So now we wait?" Sansa asks, pacing in the hotel room.

Sandor nods, hands clasped between his legs. "He knows we are here. He's just waiting to talk to us on his own terms.

Sandor had driven nearly two days straight. He was going to keep his promise to Sansa. And the sooner he was able to help her find Arya, the sooner she would be rid of him, and though the thought made his own gut drop, he put it aside. He owed her that much now.

It takes another day for the phone to ring. Sandor sleeps nearly the entire time.

"Hello?" Sandor answered, sure the gruffness of his voice would be enough to identify him.

"Came for a visit?" The voice on the other line drawled.

"Came to see an old friend."

The voice laughs. "Oh, really? Because last time I saw you, you told me to fuck off."

"That's how I talk to all of my friends."

"Probably explains why you don't fucking have any."

"You gonna play ball, or not?"

It's silent for a minute. "Yeah. And I'm using the fucking strike system."

The line goes dead, and Sansa is staring at him with wide eyes.

"He's a curious son of a bitch if nothing else. He'll call back."

She nods, wincing as she walks to the other side of the room.

"What happened?" And he scowls at the sharpness in his tone. _Be fucking polite_.

"Hmm?"

"Something wrong with your foot, girl?"

"Oh. It's just from the other day…walking in the um, when I was walking through the desert."

"Is it serious?" His voice has grown so low she can hardly hear him, and he's looking at his hands.

"No, just stings a bit."

"Did you clean out the wounds? Put anything on them?"

Sansa resists the urge to fidget, because as if discussing her wounds wasn't enough, they are doing it so clinically. "Warm water. There wasn't any soap."

He rummages in his bag for a moment, a small duffle. "Here," He tosses her a tube of Neosporin "So they don't get infected. And don't be shy, use enough."

"Thanks."

He nods, grunting, glad she goes in the bathroom. Glad she shuts the door. Relieved that he doesn't have to see any more of her pain that is a result of his actions.

The phone rings again, he wipes at his face, sighs, and leans over to answer it.

"Calling back so soon?"

"I want to speak to my sister."

He knows better to call her by name. Knows better than to ask questions. He covers his hand over the receiver, "Sansa!" He yells.

She's out of the bathroom and over to the phone in less time than it takes for him to even tell her who it is.

"Hello?" She's cradling the phone to her head. "…Arya?"

"I told you not to come after me. To leave it alone."

"I know. But I couldn't. You're my sister."

"You should be at Winterfell."

"Do you know what's happened there? Bran? Rickon? Jon?"

"You don't know…how the hell do you not know?" And she recognizes Arya's tone from when they were younger. "Bran…Rickon…they're gone. Some think they may be dead, others whisper that they are in hiding. Jon's enlisted or something equally stupid."

"What do you mean…Bran…Rickon…they can't be _dead_, Arry…"

"Listen. This isn't why I called. Go back to Winterfell, okay?"

"I can't…the Lannisters…I'm not going anywhere without you. Without seeing you."

"Not going to happen. Do as I say, Sansa. Stay safe."

"Arya? _Arya?_" Sansa slams down the phone. "Shit. _Shit._ Did you know about this?" She wheels around, turning to Sandor. "Did you know about my brothers?"

"I didn't, Sansa. I swear." He overheard what Arya told Sansa, and it was true enough that he hadn't heard anything. "But, if they were dead, Joffrey and Cersei, they would have wanted you to know. I think the fact that you haven't heard anything is a good enough sign."

She's nodding her head.

"I can have my contact try to trace the number she just called from. It's probably blocked. But it may point us in the right direction."

She nods again.

He wants to ask her if she's okay, but feels that he has lost that right. And that the answer is obvious enough anyway.

"I don't have any family left." She says finally. "Nobody. Arya…she doesn't want anything to do with me."

This time Sandor stays quiet because he doesn't know what to say.

"I thought I could find her and maybe get my family back together…but _now_ I realize how stupid that is. How stupid I've been."

"You're not stupid." He says quietly. "Whatever you want, Sansa. I'll do whatever is in my power to help you. And then I'll leave you alone. You and you're family."

She laughs without humor. "You keep _saying _that. _I'll leave you alone_. Is that supposed to make me feel _better_? You leaving? The one person…" She stops herself because this is definitely out of the realm of polite and civil.

He's staring at her now, his grey eyes reminding her of a stormy sky.

"The one person that I can count on." She hears the words come out of her mouth, but doesn't remember giving them permission to do so.

"Count on to hurt you. To let you down."

"No."

"_Yes_. Look at…look at your bloody _face_ Sansa! Your feet. Look at where we are. All of this is my fault."

"Maybe some of it is." She allows a small smile. "But most of it…it's not _your fault_. It's the Lannisters. And some of it is mine. When I ended it between us I was scared, Sandor. I was scared of losing someone else. Scared of losing you."

He doesn't know what she's saying, what it means.

"And now I practically have. You can barely look at me. I'm not saying what you did was _okay_. I'm not condoning it. But I know you won't hurt me again, that you would have never done it on purpose."

"What are you saying, Sansa?" He asks, voice low.

"That I miss you calling me little bird."

It's her hand on his shoulder finally making him look up.

"And what about your sister?" He asks lowly, unable to let it go. Not willing to accept the possibility of forgiveness at face value.

"It hurts more to be mad." She says simply.

At first it was her chasing him, and then he after her. Never have they done this together. Not really. He doesn't know who leans in first, only that kissing Sansa has to be the sweetest thing there is.

She moves closer, standing between his legs, her arms wrapping tighter around his broad back, pulling him closer like she can't get enough. His own hands press into her shoulders, one moving up to cradle her head, wrap his fingers in her hair.

He feels her mouth curve into a smile as she drags it along his jaw. His hand is nearly shaking as he traces his fingers along her cheek, over her bruise.

"I won't forget doing this. I don't expect you to either."

She pulls back to look at him. "Forgiving and forgetting are two different things. Forgiving just means…moving on. Not forgetting about it."

And he wonders, not for the first time, how Sansa managed to stay so kind when she endured so much cruelty.

But he doesn't have time to dwell, because Sansa is pushing him back towards the bed, and the fact that they don't have to worry about anyone catching them, about consequences, is a blessing and a revelation.

She's taking her time, hovering over him, sliding her hands under his shirt, over his chest, fingers brushing over his contracting stomach muscles.

She's humming as her tongue traces the waistband of his jeans and he's dying a thousand deaths. She's kneeling over him now, going to take off her shirt until his hand stays her.

"We don't have to rush." He says, rolling them until he's hovering over her and Sansa is laughing at the turn in events. _Literally_, she says, smiling at her pun.

He buries his head in her shoulder; because he hasn't seen her happy like this for a long, long time. And he's not ready for her to see the emotions in his eyes.

But now it's his turn to move his hands under her shirt, cupping them up her sides until he comes to her breasts, and then he's unclipping her bra, sliding it out from underneath her shirt.

The noises she makes as he runs his thumb over her nipple are enough to make him breath harder. He moves his other hand away, down her leg, until he's touching the inside of her thigh, her hands grip at the sheets in anticipation.

He moves to take off her shorts, and she helps him slip them off her hips, immediately gesturing him to do the same with his own jeans and shirt. He grins, obligingly, and she finally moves to strip off her own shirt.

He's back at her panties, quickly, and she's hearing her name and other things pouring off his lips and against her thigh. _Sansa. So beautiful. Tastes so good. Pretty. Perfect. Mine_.

Her noises have turned unintelligible. His nose pressing against her entrance, his tongue sliding in her, up and down, teeth gently grazing her flesh. It's when he adds a finger she remembers she doesn't have to be quiet anymore.

"Gods, Sandor. Yes. Yes. _Yes_."

He adds another finger and leans back to look at her; flushed and tousled, leaning back into the pillows. Her eyes flutter as she arches back into the bed as his fingers find her clit.

She feels herself rising higher and higher to meet her climax. "I want…"

"Tell me." His voice is low and almost makes her come right there.

"I want to come with you inside me." And she's almost embarrassed to say something like that to him. Almost.

He's a growl and quick movement as he pulls his boxers off, leaning down on his elbows to hover over her. And she's guiding him into her with a groan, her foot digging into his calf.

"Sansa. Sansa. Sansa Sansa Sansa." He's saying her name like a prayer, like this is all he has.

Nothing lasts forever, but gods be damned if they're not going to enjoy this while it's here. While it's theirs.


	16. Waking

_Waking up at the start of the end of the world,  
But it's feeling just like every other morning before,  
Now I wonder what my life is going to mean if it's gone_

He wakes up in increments; a warm body pressing into his, the sun filtering through the curtain, his hand fisted in red hair, the other flat on her stomach. A shotgun, pointed at his face.

"Well I'll be damned. Never thought a son of a bitch ugly as you would score a cun—"

He cuts off what the man is going to say, slamming his left had into his nose, using his right to shove the shotgun as far away from Sansa as he can manage.

Bronn's on the floor, blood pouring down his face, cursing Sandor, who's now pointing the riffle at him.

"See," Bronn says, trying to stop the bleeding. "This is what I was fucking saying about you and your goddamn problem with friends."

"I set this down, and I trust it won't be in my fucking face again?" Sandor asks.

"If you get your goddamn dick out of _mine_."

"This is awkward." Sandor turns to see Sansa sitting up in bed, eyes wide, sheet clutched to her chest. "I wasn't expecting…_a guest_ so soon."

"Hello. We haven't met, name's Bronn. But baby, you can call me—"

"Call him a fucking asshole, everyone else does." Sandor interrupts. He rubs his hand over his face, because he doesn't know why he expected anything less in the form of a follow-up from Bronn, and heeds his advice by pulling on his jeans.

"¿_Todo está bien, Bronn? _A voice calls from just outside the door.

_"__Si, si, todo está bien_. Todo está bien, right Sandor?"

Sandor sighs, setting down the gun. He moves so he's standing between Sansa and Bronn.

"We'll meet you outside in a minute." He says pointedly. Bronn mutters something under his breath about _who was doing who a favor_ as he grabs the gun, and steps out into the dusty sunlight.

"That's your friend?" Sansa asks.

"That's _Bronn_."

Sansa nods, looking down at her hand that's still holding up the sheet. She looks back to Sandor before an almost embarrassed look crosses over her face and settles into a smile.

"Hi." She says finally.

"Morning." He says, voice gruff. He moves towards her on the bed, tentatively reaching out a hand to brush her hair back from her face.

"Sleep well?" Her smile turns mischievous as she scoots towards him.

"Not much sleeping, little bird." The color that rises to her face makes his cock twitch.

And he leans in to kiss her, because he can. Because he missed her. Mostly because he thinks he'll never get enough of her.

He kisses her deep and slow, sliding his tongue into her mouth, his other hand digging into her side and pulling her closer. She hums against him, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his neck, thumbs resting under his jaw.

She kisses him once. Twice. Again, before pulling away.

"You really think he'll be able to help us find Arya?"

_Us. _"Aye, much as I hate to admit it. He knows what he's doing, knows a lot of people down here. Get dressed then, little bird. Let's go find your sister."

She squeals as he swats her when she gets up and makes her way to the bathroom. Sandor pulls on his discarded shirt laying by the bed, wondering just how deep of shit they are going to have to get into to actually find the Faceless.

"Take your fucking time, _pendejo." _Bronn calls from outside.

Which is enough to make Sandor storm outside.

"Look." He says, squaring off with his old friend. "You're going to listen to what she has to say, and then no bullshit, alright? She's been through enough, and I'll not have you fucking with her any further. We're not half-assing this, and if you try to sell us out, I swear to the bloody gods I'll fucking end you."

"Whoa." Bronn holds up his hands, motioning the guy he brought with to stand down. Sandor thinks he may recognize him as the son of one of the other guys Bronn hangs with, though he hasn't seen the kid since he was three. Poderick, was it? "No intention of selling out anybody. Makes for bad business."

Sandor measures him, giving him a look that's completely the Hound.

"But remember what I said about the strike system? After the shit you've pulled this morning you're at one, _friend_."

"And what happens at three?" Sandor challenges him, taking a step closer.

"Hello." Sansa says from the door, smiling.

"¿_Y quien está esa guapa? _

"None of your concern." Sandor growls, turning now towards the boy. Definitely Poderick, he'd recognize the dopey face anywhere. He was a sweet kid, too sweet for the people his dad ran with.

"As I said, Bronn. Pleased to meet you…?"

"Sansa." She supplies, extending her hand.

_So the little bird still chirps_, Sandor thinks wryly.

"Sansa. Lovely. This is Poderick. We'll both be…helping you with whatever it is you require."

Sansa nods, looking thoughtful. She steps towards Sandor, slipping her hand into his, and squeezing.

"We need to get in contact with the Faceless." Sandor speaks up.

"Should be doable. May take some time to get in contact. Who're you looking to off this time?"

"Not for a job. We need to speak to one of them in particular."

Bronn's eyes bulge. "You know that's not how they work."

"That's why we're coming to you."

"I don't fucking know, Sandor. Nobody tried to contact a _shitting Faceless_, you know? There's no precedence. They'll probably get offended and come after me. After _you _and your girl there."

"We'll make the trouble worth your time." _My girl. My girl my girl my girl. _

Bronn tries to keep a neutral face, but neither Sandor nor Sansa miss the way his eyes light up. "And how's that?"

"Any jobs you want me to do for you here while you're looking."

"And how's _Sansa_ going to pull her weight?" Though it's Bronn who asks, Poderick looking like he may have a few ideas of his own.

"She stays out of it."

"Sandor." She says, tugging his hand.

"No." Sandor turns to face her, his back to Bronn. "You'll stay out of it."

"Not if I can help. Not if it means finding her faster."

"From her," Bronn clears his throat behind him. "I was thinking something a bit more simple. I want _information_."

Sansa doesn't say anything, but raises her eyebrows skeptically.

"I may talk slow, sweetheart, but I know who you are. Who you _belonged to_. And the Lannisters are competition."

"Competition?"

"We _dabble_ in the same businesses as they do. Drugs. Women. _Money_. We just do it south of the border. But we're looking to expand north, and are running into a lot of resistance."

"_Los leones_." Poderick says, spitting into the ground.

"They're stealing our product, killing our people, and keeping us from moving stateside. We need an edge, and I think you may have it in your pretty little head."

"They didn't…_involve_ me in the business side of anything." Sansa says slowly, her eyes calculating. And Sandor is almost proud of her, how much she has grown up, how much she has learned. "But I'll tell you what you want to know. How much I know."

Bronn nods, smiling.

"Once I see some results in finding our Faceless." At her stipulation, Bronn's smile drops, and Sandor has to stop himself from grinning.

"And who exactly are we looking for?"

"A girl." Sandor steps in, because he's hesitant to spread the Stark name anymore than absolutely necessary. "Probably has been with them for a year. She's sixteen."

"Brown hair. Grey eyes." Sansa adds.

"You've got to be fucking shitting me. _Zolka_? You're looking for fucking Zolka?"

"You've heard of her?" Sansa asks.

"Yeah, we've all fucking heard of the newest and deadliest addition to the Faceless. They only use her for the serious fucking gigs, if you catch my drift."

Sansa's face seems to lose some of its color.

Bronn turns to Poderick, "_Ellos quieren encontrar Zolka. La Loba."_

_"__¿Son locos?_

"Who's Zolka?" Sansa asks.

"It's a word in the language the Faceless use. Around here people call her l_a Loba_. Jesus Christ, guess we are going on a wolf hunt then."


End file.
